


Hell Will Have Us

by write_away



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, and the love is utterly unrequited, in which E and R argue, unfortunately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/write_away
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> "Let me go, Grantaire," he says as calmly as ever, shifting his weight from one foot to another as he attempts to wrench one arm out of Grantaire's grip. "You're a fool. You're drunk."</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>Grantaire doesn't let him get away, instead digging his nails further into Enjolras's skin until he catches a wince, a mostly hidden gasp of pain, and then he revels in it - so Apollo is human after all.</i></p>
<p>  <i>"I'm not the fool here," he says, though he won't dispute his lack of sobriety. He hasn't disputed that in years, because what is there to argue? It's true, and he enjoys that truth, because it's one of the few Enjolras will ever face willingly. "Do you think you are David, able to defeat the great Goliath singlehandedly? Do you delude yourself? You would be crushed under his foot in an instant." </i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Grantaire mourns the world and the sun, for it is already in Hell, and nothing he says seems to change that. But there is beauty in destruction, and there is also Enjolras - so he'll take the torment and burn along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell Will Have Us

  
Enjolras has the grace to look concerned when his back hits the wall so hard that bits of plaster rain down and Grantaire's nearby canvas quakes.

Grantaire isn't satisfied with concern, though. He's angry, he's _furious_ , and mere concern does nothing but light a fire underneath his feet. He tightens his grip on the younger man's wrists and pins them to the wall above his head, leaning in so he's certain Enjolras will smell the alcohol on his breath. Sure enough, the blond turns his head away, coughing and making his shining curls tremble with movement.

"Let me go, Grantaire," he says as calmly as ever, shifting his weight from one foot to another as he attempts to wrench one arm out of Grantaire's grip. "You're a fool. You're drunk."

Grantaire doesn't let him get away, instead digging his nails further into Enjolras's skin until he catches a wince, a mostly hidden gasp of pain, and then he revels in it - so Apollo is human after all.

"I'm not the fool here," he says, though he won't dispute his lack of sobriety. He hasn't disputed that in years, because what is there to argue? It's true, and he enjoys that truth, because it's one of the few Enjolras will ever face willingly. "Do you think you are David, able to defeat the great Goliath singlehandedly? Do you delude yourself? You would be crushed under his foot in an instant."

Enjolras turns his head slowly, the sun's fire flickering in his eyes as he stares into Grantaire's sagely. There is knowledge in them - there is even an ounce of sagacity, though Grantaire would be hard-pressed to admit seeking that out. There is understanding of things beyond comprehension to a mortal man, but there is no understanding in what is most important - what Grantaire is trying to say.

"I am not alone." Enjolras practically spits in Grantaire's face, his breath ghosting between them like a hot puff of air. "I have my friends - the Amis are at my side - Heavens, even you are at my side, Grantaire, whether you wish it or not! No," he says, laughing and shaking his head, pity exploding from his fiery depths. "It is not me who is alone, but you. Can't you see that?"

Grantaire releases his arms with a huff, fury beaten back by resignation, and stumbles to the chipped, worn little table in the corner. Warm Parisian daylight seeps through the open window, leaving the tiny room with the glow of spring. Grantaire collapses into a chair and lifts his mostly-drained bottle to his lips, but does not drink. "Then you think yourself Odysseus facing the cyclops with the help of his men. Oh, but how many did Polyphemus devour before victory was had?" He smirks and takes a swig, feeling the pleasant burn as it slides down his throat. "How many will you allow to die?"

Enjolras, now released, doesn't move. He crosses his arms indignantly across his chest, wrinkling the fabric of his red jacket at the crease of his elbow, pulling up a hem on one side - Grantaire's hands itch to draw it, but he wraps them tighter around his bottle.

"I do not wish death upon anyone," Enjolras murmurs softly. "Though death is sometimes a consequence of progress."

Grantaire smirks. "Do you not even wish death upon me? Not even sometimes?" He takes a long sip of the bottle when Enjolras doesn't answer, laughing through the mouthful. "Don't worry, Apollo. I haven't been offended - death is inevitable, anyway. Death and the bottom of the bottle." He peers into his drink and shakes it once. "Though I suppose I'm lucky to not have reached either yet."

Enjolras doesn't speak, but he doesn't leave either, so Grantaire is encouraged. Perhaps - and it's a daunting thought - he's made his point clear enough.

Enjolras moves to stare out the window, brushing the curtain aside with a gentle hand. He's standing in Grantaire's favorite spot, where the angle to the street is just right. It's far from a nice area of the city. Most are repulsed by his paintings and sketches of drunkards and prostitutes that starve on the cobblestone below.

But is there no beauty in destruction? Grantaire appreciates it; he knows he is part of it, anyway, so there's no value in denial.

"I do not wish you to die, Grantaire," Enjolras finally says, his shoulders sagging with the proclamation. "It's no secret than I'm less than fond, but -"

"Then why are you here?"

Enjolras starts and turns, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Pardon?"

Grantaire sets his bottle down and steeps his hands, fingertips touching lightly. "Why are you here? Clearly, you don't like me. And yet, you come of apparently your own accord. Why? Because I am one of the pitiful, oppressed existences you seem determined to save?"

Enjolras snorts inelegantly, for a moment seeming less marble and more mud. "Pitiful, yes. Oppressed? Only by yourself and your drinking. Don't fool yourself - saving you would be a waste of time. No." He sniffs and tucks a fallen curl back, his back straight and formal. He's recovered from his collision with the wall. "The others were concerned. You haven't shown in days."

Grantaire raises his eyebrows; he hadn't expected anyone to notice his casual absence, but his heart pangs to think that they worry. Distance was meant to make the heart grow cold, to make their inevitable failure hurt less, but it seems he's incapable of success. "Go on."

Enjolras's cheeks, for his credit, tinge pink. "The task was delegated to me. Joly feared catching some sort of illness from this area, Bahorel would have simply engaged you in another drinking game, Courfeyrac -"

"Would have forgotten," Grantaire offers.

Enjolras dips his head, conceding. "Likely. Feuilly had work, and - well, they all had their excuses." His sigh is like a rain cloud drifting in front of the sun. "I, admittedly, had meant to apologize for my behavior last week. Calling you a worthless drunk was out of line."

Grantaire allows himself to smile, though the comment stings and stabs in his gut even days and drinks later. "Yet true."

Enjolras's lips press together until they are nothing but thin pink lines holding back from reluctant agreement, only because, Grantaire assumes, he loathes to agree with anything that comes from Grantaire's lips.

"You are going to die, Enjolras." Grantaire looks away, trains his gaze on the grains of the table that swirl and spin into one another. His voice comes out broken and cracked; he takes a drink to soothe it. "You'll die in this endeavor. It's too large for you - even with an army, you can't hope to win. What do you think you're playing at?"

Enjolras crosses to the door, one hand on the knob, but halts suddenly, resting his forehead on the gnarled wood. He looks transformed for a moment - his youth replaced with the heaviness of knowledge that had perhaps been locked away until now. Because surely he had known, Grantaire reasons - surely Enjolras understood the only way this could end.

"Equality," Enjolras responds, eyes shut tight and breathing shallow. "Freedom."

Grantaire laughs - what else can he do? The world is too harsh to handle idealism. Enjolras's ideals will crush him and everyone he cares about before they ever come to light. Enjolras won't hear it, though, so Grantaire doesn't bother. "Death doesn't spare young fools. Hell will have you as soon as it has me."

Enjolras's lips quirk up at the sides. "And I thought you didn't believe in Hell."

"Of course I believe in Hell." Grantaire pulls himself to his feet and moves to pull Enjolras from the door. It only takes a light touch to grasp his forearm and tug the blond away. Grantaire twists the knob and swings the door open, so it hits the wall with a bang rivaling the one Enjolras had made earlier. "It is here on Earth. Tell the ABC Society that I am alive and well and just as apathetic about the world as always - I'll be sure to stop by this week, though the Musain's alcohol leaves much to be offered, if only to soothe their minds." Grantaire pauses, wondering if he ought to continue when he has Enjolras standing here, staring at him like he is the most curious creature.

He doesn't have to make the decision, because Enjolras speaks.

"You don't fear dying," he says breathlessly, wondrously. His curls have fallen and his features have twisted back to the youthful student who thinks he can outwit human nature. "Do you?"

Grantaire's smile feels warped and bitter. It probably is. "I only fear mourning you." Grantaire chews on his bottom lip briefly, hanging his head in defeat. "If it's any consolation at all, I intend to be there, dying at your side. I have no wish to mourn."

Enjolras's cheeks tinge again and he ducks his head with a muttered farewell, replacing the hat he never set down and striding down the hall with a brisk pace, his footsteps echoing all the way down the hall until Grantaire shuts the door and falls to the floor, plaster settling around him as he rests his head against the wall.

He is mourning already.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading - I'd love some feedback.


End file.
